


Smoke Screen and Mirrors

by kanronotatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky is a veteran, Gen, Steve & Sam are detectives, everybody will appear at some point, or at least that's what I was going for, rating will change with the next chapters, the detective au nobody asked for, there's murder and mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanronotatsu/pseuds/kanronotatsu
Summary: Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers, NYPD Major Crimes Detectives face what's probably the biggest case of their lives.





	Smoke Screen and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short: there was a challenge, I had to fit three words into a one-shot, and yeah, my hand slipped. I'll try to update regularly, but the end of the story is still in progress, so it might take a while.

_**Prologue** _

On that particular Friday morning Steve finds Sam sleeping in the office with his legs propped up on their desk, snoring softly, an empty coffee cup lying on the floor beside him where he dropped it when he fell asleep. Steve sighs, pushing his partner’s legs down from the table, making the man jerk awake and sit upright like lightning.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Steve places the two coffees he’s carrying on the desk, sitting down, watching with an amused smile how Sam tries to blink away the remnants of sleep.

“Screw you, Rogers.”

“Don’t be like that, I brought you coffee.” He pushes one cup towards his partner, taking the other for himself. “You’ve been here all night?”

“Yep. I made…” a giant yawn “...some calls and read through the report again. We are definitely missing something here.”

Steve hums and nods, sipping on his coffee, his eyes sweeping over the reports and photos scattered on the desk. One in particular grabs his attention, the photo of the secondary scene, the cartridge on the floor circled with a red marker. Sam scribbled something on a post-it note beside it, but Steve has trouble reading his handwriting upside down.

“That again?”

“That, and everything else.”

They exchange solemn glances, Sam sighing heavily, they both know what this means; more secrecy and lies, an impending ass-kicking from their captain, and worst of all: Internal Affairs breathing down their necks soon. Sam shakes his head, leaning back on his chair, expression gloomy.

“We’ve got ourselves too deep in trouble this time.”

Steve tries for a nonchalant grin. “Since when are you adversed to trouble, pal?”

Sam flashes a killer glare in his direction. “Since about a week ago.”

Steve throws up his hands in defeat. “Touché.”

“Speaking of trouble, where have _you_ been all night? I had to cover for you.” There's an unsaid _again_ in the narrowing of Sam’s eyes.

Steve leans back on his chair, contemplating his next words. He looks around, then pulls a slip of paper in front of himself, scribbling _‘not here’_ on it, pushing it towards Sam. “That’s… a long story.”

Wilson raises his eyebrows as he reads Steve's note. He takes a pen to write _'coffee shop’_ beside it. Steve nods to him as Sam crumples the note, throwing it in the trash.

“I have time.”

* * *

 

_Four days ago, Monday_

_New York, 11:13 am_

_Central Park_

 

Steve Rogers - homicide detective, NYPD, Major Crimes Division - was fighting a headache. He had already took at least three Aspirins, but his brain still felt like it was thrown into a blender last night. He glanced at his partner and friend, Sam Wilson, also homicide detective, the main cause of his sickness. Last night Sam convinced him that once in a while going out and having fun isn’t gonna kill him. That one more vodka shot will surely not gonna deck him. That this new whateverthehellwasitsname cocktail is delicious, and Steve should try it, and why not start out with drinking at least three of them? It _was_ delicious. But then Steve woke up in Sam’s bed, in crumpled clothes, with hazy memories and a splitting headache, and didn’t even have time to go home and change before they got the call. Sam got a rude awakening, when Steve kicked him down from the couch in the living room. After consuming some cold and awful coffee they found in Sam's kitchen, they both managed to drag their wearied bodies to the crime scene. The most important crime scene in their careers, probably.

Wilson looked way better than he did, Steve noted with chagrin. Looking down on his own clothes, Steve felt a surge of shame. He never looked so shabby at work before, and he knew he had a day old stubble’s shadow on his face too. He should’ve shaved, at least. Of course Sam thought of that too. Steve sighed, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

“So you found the body at what time?”

The poor guy standing in front of him was fidgeting, and looked like a nervous wreck. A grimace spread on his face at the question, and he took a look at his watch.

“It was around 9, maybe. I usually get to this side by that time. I think.”

“Okay.” Steve scribbled down the time on his notepad, writing 'emergency call’ beside it too. They will know the exact time when the guy reported the body to the police at least. That couldn't have been much later than the actual discovery.

“Noticed anything strange? Out of the ordinary? You come here running often, right?”

The guy nodded, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand, gaze flicking back and forth between Steve and the technicians gathering behind him. Steve took care to have the guy facing away from the dead body, he got enough of a shock already.

“Yes, yes I do. Strange? Apart from the dead guy?” he gave a nervous chuckle “I don't know. Nothing, really. I was just minding my own business, you know? Just running. Didn't really pay attention.”

Steve nodded, thanked the guy, gave him a card 'in case you happen to remember anything else’, and let him go. The poor dude was visibly relieved that he could get away from the crime scene. At least one thing was certain, Steve thought, that he wasn't the killer.

“Yo, Stevie, look at this!” Wilson called to him.

His partner was standing beside the body, surrounded by technicians, they were already busy processing the scene. Steve walked to Sam’s side, careful to follow the designated route.

“What?”

The body was laying on his back, hands lying beside his head. He was dressed in training clothes: tank top, shorts and expensive running shoes, his cell strapped to his arm. The phone’s headset was plugged into his ears, blood clotting over them where it dripped down from the hole in his forehead. A pretty big hole, in Steve's opinion. The guy’s face was frozen into a surprised grimace, his brown eyes still open, glazed over with a sheen of death. Steve saw countless bodies before and he remembered all of them - now this one was filed away too in that archive deep inside his brain.

“The angle of the shot. Doesn't it seem strange to you?”

Steve frowned, taking another, now more careful look at that bullethole. Right, there was something strange about it. Something that didn't seem to fit. Steve wished he wasn't so hungover, then maybe his brain would function properly.

He scrunched up his face, pinching the base of his nose. “Yes, it does.”

“Coroner will likely agree with me if I say that the shot came from somewhere high up.” Sam pointed to the surrounding buildings looming over the park.

He was right, Steve also saw that now, the angle of the wound was too steep, no person was tall enough to shoot someone in the head like that. At least not from a distance. And there was no burn or gunpowder residue around the wound to suggest that the victim was shot at close range.

“High up… You mean like an assassination.”

Sam nodded slowly, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Yep, that’s what I mean.”

Steve turned back to the body with a sigh, his headache suddenly worsening. He just couldn't wait for the moment when he has to tell Captain Fury that on this lovely summer morning Howard Stark was assassinated by a sniper. As far as Monday mornings go, this had to be the worst ever in Steve's life.

\-----

_Same day_

_New York, a few minutes later_

_Somewhere in Brooklyn_

 

He woke up in a dirty alley stinking of piss and vomit, behind a dumpster, lying on a heap of trash. Sad thing was, this wasn’t anything new. He sat up, pushing a few strands of hair out of his face and looked around. There was nobody in the vicinity, thankfully. He strained his mind, trying to remember how he got in that alley this time, and failed. Again. Always. _Pretty fucking typical._ With a sigh he heaved himself up, prepared for the oncoming bout of nausea and headache. Both struck him in the back of his head at the same time, forcing him to lean against the wall behind his back for some support. _Come on, you can do better. Remember._

No recollection came. The last thing he knew was that he exited his apartment building around 7:00 am, setting out for some basic grocery shopping. Looking down on the ground, he didn't see a shopping bag, so either he never got to the shop, or someone stole his stuff while he was out of it. Probably the latter. There was something else he remembered: the sound of a shot. Or more likely, a car backfiring. Yeah, that must be right. He heard that sound, and boom, his brain switched back to fighting mode instantly. It had happened before.

But he felt that something was out of the ordinary. His mind was groggy, his muscles aching, and that was new. It was like he drank himself under the table before losing consciousness. Or as if he was drugged. _Yeah, right._ He barked out a cynical, bitter laugh, pushing himself away from the wall, swaying slightly. Nope, it was definitely strange. He shook his head, trying to chase away the paranoid thoughts. _They are all just your imagination, Sergeant. Nobody’s trying to kill you or kidnap you. You left the war behind._ But he wasn't so sure anymore. He may have left war behind, but what if war hadn’t left him? What if war followed him home? What if there was never an end to war?

He stepped out to the street, his stomach tied into a knot, that ominous feeling never leaving him as he made his way through the crowd towards his home.

\-----

_Same day_

_New York, 12:26 pm_

_One Police Plaza_

 

Captain Fury’s office, along with the Major Crimes Division, was on the 12th floor of the building, looking out over Brooklyn Bridge. Sam and Steve had just arrived back from the coroner, who corroborated Sam’s theory. The shot must’ve come from somewhere high, and the bullet - which they’ve found lodged into a tree a few yards away from the body - was from a sniper rifle, without a doubt. Otherwise there was nothing suspicious on the body. Stark was probably running, early in the morning, when he was killed. The coroner estimated the time of death to have been around 6 to 8 in the morning.

Steve tossed his coat on the back of his chair, scratching his chin - the stubble was starting to bother him. He glanced at the Captain’s office, the door was closed, and some figures were moving behind the frosted glass.

“You think that’s the Chief?” Sam asked, sitting on his desk, chewing on a gum.

Wilson started to look ruffled too, the fine lines in the corner of his eyes were drawn out by his stern expression. Even so, he managed to look dapper, making Steve jealous and feel like a hobo beside him. He shrugged, crossing his arms in front of his chest, stifling a yawn.

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure everyone’s heard about it by now.”

“Heard about what, Rogers? That you found a dead Stark in Central Park?”

The voice coming from behind him belonged to another Major Crimes detective. Steve pulled his mouth into a grin, turning around to greet the red-haired woman. Natasha Romanoff was only in her early thirties, but she was the Division’s best detective already. Her career kicked off when she solved a very ugly serial murder case, instantly writing herself into the NYPD history books. She was Captain Fury's favourite too, and probably the most intelligent person Steve ever knew. Now she was looking sideways at him with elevated eyebrows.

“Good god, Rogers, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“What did you do to him, Wilson?”

Sam raised his hands in the air defensively, putting on his most innocent expression.

“Me? Nothing at all. He drank of his own volition, I even read him his rights.”

Romanoff chuckled, shaking her head. “And he didn't even get home, judging from his clothes.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s almost like you’re a detective, Natasha.”

“Rogers, if you spend a night in Sam’s bed, passed out drunk, you can bet your ass I’ll find out.”

However much he tried to stop it, Steve felt a light blush creep onto his face. Even if Natasha didn’t say anything technically embarrassing. Not _that_ embarrassing, at least. But Steve knew that Natasha knew that he kinda, low-key, secretly liked Sam very much. Maybe a bit too much. A teeny bit more than just partners or friends. So mentioning - and thinking about - the fact that he spent a night in Sam’s bed was going to make Steve embarrassed. He barked out a weak, but hopefully plausible laugh, giving a serious stink-eye to the redhead.

“Why don’t you go and use your detective superpowers elsewhere, Romanoff?”

“No, no, wait, I want to know how she knew that you slept in the bed?”

Natasha looked back and forth between the two of them, a grin spreading on her face. Steve was suddenly afraid of what she might say, but had no way of conveying the message ‘shut your mouth Romanoff, or god help me’ to Natasha without alerting Sam.

“Well… I guessed you’d be at least that much of a gentleman, Wilson. After all, you must’ve felt guilty for getting your partner _that_ drunk.” she gave a last wink directed at Sam, then turned on her heels “I’ll go put my superpowers to better use. See you around, fellas.”

As she walked away, Steve willed himself to calm down. This was nothing but a little pleasant and playful banter between them. Nothing could be read into it. Nothing at all. It’s just his overactive imagination and the thought that if someone had read something into it, it would be true. And this little side-thought lingered with him all the time: Sam wasn’t straight. So Steve might even had a chance. If they weren’t partners, which they were - _okay, stop right there, Steven Grant Rogers. Just stop._ He threw a side-glance at Sam who was still sitting on the table, chewing that same gum thoughtfully, frowning, staring at the Captain’s office.

“Seriously, dude. They’ve been in there too long.”

It felt like a whole continent had just dropped down from Steve’s shoulders when he heard those words. Meaning that Sam didn’t think anything about this little exchange they had with Natasha. Of course he wouldn’t. No one would. Steve immediately switched back to detective mode.

“I’m of the opinion that we should scram before they come out of there. Fury will be in a shit mood and my headache is already killing me.”

Sam turned his head towards Steve, raising his eyebrows, then smirked.

“You mean we should do some police work, partner?”

“Exactly.”

Wilson hopped off the desk and tossed the gum into a rubbish bin. “Let’s go.”

\-----

_Same day_

_New York, 12:49 pm_

_somewhere in Brooklyn_

 

The first thing he noticed when he got home was a box of nails out of place. He was sure he didn’t leave it like that, because being the paranoid mess he’s been lately he put everything down exactly at the same place every time he left home. Specifically for the purpose that he’ll notice if someone was tampering with his stuff. And someone has been now, clearly. There is just no other good reason for a box of nails to relocate without some help. No gust of wind could do that. And he had no pets.

He dropped the bag of food he bought down by the door, becoming alert and itchy. He felt like his nerves were tightly wrung guitar strings, seconds away from snapping, and his skin crawled with nervous excitement. Battle mode again. Right now at least he had a good reason to revert back to fighting times. He wasn’t quite sure if he should be glad about that or not.

Lifting the baseball bat standing right beside the door, he started looking around cautiously. He examined the place like it was a landmine-infested battlefield, although there weren’t very many places a person could hide in there. The apartment wasn’t really big, there was only one room with a kitchen corner, and a separate bathroom, that’s all. Every single item had its designated place, and he immediately saw that many things were moved. The wooden boards in the corner for example, which he used to put together some furniture - shelves for example. That’s what he needed the nails for, and a drill, which definitely had been moved inches away from where he left it. The bathroom was empty, but there were a few suspicious smudges on the inside of the little cupboard above the sink. His medicines were moved too, some bottles changed places.

After making sure that no one was in the apartment besides him, he sat down by his desk in front of the window. The papers he kept there were neatly placed, like he left them, but their order was skewed, and some even went missing. The last century typewriter he used was clean, _too clean_ , no fingerprints on it, as if someone wiped it all off. He opened the drawers, feeling the upside of the bottom one - his hidden papers were still there, intact, it seemed. That somehow made him glad, although they were really not that important papers, or even that secret. So… they’ve been through his desk too. But what they could’ve been looking for? As far as earthly possessions go, he hadn’t had much of them. There was nothing to take, nothing of value. And nothing was missing either - he checked the whole place. Except...

 _The duffle bag under the bed._ He knew he probably should’ve found a safer place to put it, but there was just no other option. Besides, he shoved that damned duffle as far under the bedframe as he could, so he couldn’t remove it without hassle even if he wanted to. He never wanted to. He stood up, standing by the bed, staring it down like it could give away some kind of information. He really didn’t want to check that bag. The plain grey and black patterned comforter, the white pillow, and the tightly tucked white sheet were all silent, though.

With a sigh he kneeled down and reached deep under the frame. For a moment he was relieved when his fingers touched the fabric of the bag, but his mood instantly darkened as he pulled it out. The zipper was open just a few inches, but he surely didn’t leave it like that. Not to mention that a definite, strong mix of the smell of gunpowder and gun oil hit his nose as he zipped the bag open. And he hadn’t even laid eyes on the damned thing since a year or so. He didn’t even want to _think_ about the sniper rifle under the bed, not to mention getting it out and oiling it. And even if he did, it shouldn’t smell of gunpowder anyway. Because the rifle wasn’t fired in ages, right? Not since…

He dropped the weapon back into the bag like it was a poisonous snake, sitting back on his heels, dragging a hand through his hair. _No, it’s just not right. Someone shot with this thing not so long ago, but that wasn’t me. I was laying knocked out in a dirty alley. Or was I? I can’t remember, can I? What if I just… No, that’s crazy. I’m not crazy. Someone went through my stuff. That’s for sure. I’m not going crazy. ...am I?_

Making up his mind he stood up and discarded all of his clothes. He had a tall mirror laid against the wall - he didn’t have the time or energy or motivation to put it up on the wall yet. Now he stood before it, facing himself like he hadn’t done in ages. Seeing all his scars again almost threw him right back into panicking mode, but he overcame that, and started inspecting his own body. He was looking for a mark, a tiny puncture mark, to reassure him in his theory that he was drugged. Of course, it was a long shot, he could’ve easily been drugged in other ways too, but in his guts he just knew it was an injection and not something else. And eventually, he found that mark. Right above a glossy white, tiny scar - caused by a shrapnel from a bomb that detonated not ten yards away from him - on his neck on the left side, inches away from his artery. A clear puncture mark caused by a needle. A tiny red dot. Either his mind was playing serious tricks on him, or someone stuck a needle in him during the day. He would put good money on it being the latter.

For maybe the first time since he got back home from the war, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes felt truly and rightfully pissed off. What pissed off? He was mad with fury. For all that he’s been through, for all that he’s still been going through, now it seemed that someone was playing a game with him. A game in which he was supposed to play either the victim, the scapegoat, or both. _Hell no._ He refused to play either part. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to mess with an Army Sniper - discharged or not - thought damn well wrong. And from now on he will be hell bent on showing them exactly why.


End file.
